Her body hummed with energy—it couldn’t not. Her world had been shattered, and now she was putting it back together in strange new shapes. The ship seemed to toss and turn with her. After hours, she got up and left her room.
Most of the crew were asleep. She passed the occasional sailor on the graveyard shift, but didn’t talk to them.
The ship had three main levels: the belly of the ship was dominated by the hold, and general storage. The kitchens, crew bunks and carpenter’s shop were above that, just below-decks. The bar was raised above-decks: it seemed like a later addition, not intended for life at sea—the main mast punched straight through the middle: she overheard one woman complaining to another about how it fucked up the positions of all the ropes. Sibbi’s private cabin was behind the bar, underneath the raised portion of the rear deck.
Yat moved quietly. She’d always been good at it. She did it when she wasn’t even trying, but she was very good at it when she wanted to be. The trick wasn’t to dart from shadow to shadow: it was to look like you belonged exactly where you were. Nobody challenged her as she explored the ship. She found a small grow-room attached to the kitchen, filled with fragrant mushrooms. She found a room with a single large Tinker’s Horn in it; the room smelled of Ajat’s perfume. In the hold, she found what looked like a giant green heart that was so bright with magical power that it hurt to look at. She found her way back to the bar. The tea service was gone, as was the giant dead mushroom.
She could sense four people in the room behind the bar: the bright glows of Sibbi and Ajat, and two men whose glows were smaller. She crept over to the door, and put her ear to it. The voices were muffled, but she had no trouble understanding them. She heard the rattle of metal against wood, then Wajet made a sound that can only be described as a harumph.
“Nifty,” he said. “I’ll get it to him. Anyway, back to the issue at hand—this intel we’ve collected. ”
He drawled the word intel, somewhere that wasn’t-quite sarcastic but came very close.
“Don’t talk to me like that, Wajet,” said Ajat. “I died for this information. You ever drowned? I don’t recommend it.”
“And?” he said. “You drowned for nothing. It’s worthless. The crew got taken apart by sniper fire from a league away. You get a name? A face? You get anything at all?”
“We got nothing,” said Ajat, “and that’s something. Ships don’t disappear.”
A moment of silence, broken only by the tapping of fingers against paper. Sibbi’s voice now: tired, irritated.
“Not ships with that sort of funding,” she said, “and definitely not right out of the thrice-cursed harbour. They were in range of the lighthouse—they were closer to home than we are now. The ship had Parliamentary backing. It had the army and the university behind it and it just disappeared. It’s been two days, and nothing in the papers, nothing from our contacts: nobody saw or heard a thing.”
“It had us behind it too,” said Wajet. “Remember that. And the Lion, apparently, if they knew exactly where to hit it.”
“It was Elvar,” said Ajat. “He sold us out. I think he was probably expecting to be paid in silver, not in lead.”
Yat swore she could hear a smirk.
“Right,” said Wajet. “So where are we? The Ladowain have a mushroom. They probably don’t know what to do with it: they can’t do even basic alchemy. They’ve shot a bunch of people in the streets, and set off some bombs, but no followup fleet in the harbour. They don’t do mercy, so the silence is making me nervous. We need to figure out what they’re planning before we make our next move.”
Sibbi now. She was pacing back and forth, her threads jumpy and agitated. “The university knows something,” she said. “They’ve cancelled classes, locked the gates, shut off outside communication. They had a man onboard the Fantail; maybe they had back channels. We need to find out what they know.”
“Yadin,” said Ajat. “His name was Yadin.”
There was pain in her voice—pain that left the room silent for too long. The fourth man spoke up, and she did not recognise his voice: heavily-accented Ahwara, rough but sweet—honey and sandpaper. He spoke slowly, cautiously, as if he were trying to fill the emptiness with anything else.
“You say the girl was killed with a revolver?” he said. “This is what her memories tell you?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” said Wajet. “They used them during the war. I seen ‘em.”
A pause, then the mystery man spoke again.
“They have not used them for some time. They were already outdated during the war, but some officers held onto them for sentimental value. The last time they came over the Oxhead Channel, they had machine pistols, gas rockets, armoured cars. That was perhaps four years ago—a revolver is a relic. I cannot see an enlisted Ladowain officer using one of these guns, but there are plenty in Hainak. They are, after all, relics of the war. As sure as my father is my father, your assassin was a mercenary or a fake. If I had to guess, I’d say he was local. Probably a veteran.”
“Noted,” said Sibbi. “I have a few theories, but they’re still coming together. It wasn’t random, I know that: somebody knew we’d tried to pick the girl up, and they wanted to remove her from the picture, send us a message. We’re lucky Monkey got her—haven’t seen him bring anybody back in a while. As far as we knew, he was gone like the others. We last heard from Tiger what, five years ago? Monkey maybe three? Not even a resurrection, a few of us just heard him hollering in a dream. Seems like he’s running on fumes, but good to know he’s still got the gift. There’s hope for us yet.”
“Hope,” said the fourth speaker. His voice was so low, everything he said sent a tingle down her body. “Yes, there is hope.”
She couldn’t be sure, but was there a smile in his voice?
Wajet, never a man to let a pleasant moment remain unshaken, stood up and thumped his hands on the table: she could hear his chair shoot back across the wood, and the twin slaps of his palms. “Shake down an egghead,” he said. “Got it.”
“We’ve got a few days,” said Sibbi. “We’ve got a supply run to do, then we’ll swing back around to Hainak and drop you off at the docks. There’s patrols everywhere, but I know a few spots we won’t be noticed. I don’t want to linger: once you’re off, you’re off until we can arrange another pickup. You know what to do if you need to talk to us.”
A moment of silence, then something Yat couldn’t make out, then mumbled protest from Ajat. A shuffling of heavy boots on wood: the familiar clomp clomp clomp of Wajet moving towards the door. She could feel her heart beating in her chest—feel that familiar urge to flee. There was no time for it, though. She took a step back from the door—enough to avoid being hit by it—then straightened up. The door flew open: even during surreptitious nighttime meetings, Wajet moved like a typhoon. He almost walked into her, then stopped dead.
“Constable,” he said.
“Sergeant,” she said.
Silence hung between them, but she didn’t feel like it was out of her control this time; she let it hang for a few more moments.
“How much did you hear?” he said.
She shrugged. She wasn’t sure exactly what she’d heard, but she was starting to put the pieces together.
“I heard enough,” she said. She wasn’t sure whether it was true, but it couldn’t hurt to make him think so.
He seemed to chew on this thought. Sibbi was leaning on the doorframe, watching them—she shifted her gaze back and forth quickly. There was something almost birdlike about the way she moved, the way she stood, the way she held herself. She stood with Ajat, and a slim Ahwari man in a pair of golden wire-rimmed glasses with lenses so dark they seemed like obsidian.
“We’ve caught a spy,” Sibbi drawled. There wasn’t a lot of force behind it—she didn’t even seem surprised. Then it hit Yat: if she could see Sibbi through the wall,
Sibbi could almost certainly see her. It didn’t matter that she glowed less brightly: Sibbi’s was better at this. She also must’ve kept speaking, despite knowing they were being observed.The fearful part of Yat was screaming now, but she was riding the wave: letting the energy push her higher.
“So?” she said. “You said I could go anywhere: I came here. What of it?”
Sibbi waved a hand: slightly paternal, as if to cut her off. “You—”
“And besides—” said Yat. The words were coming out of her now and she didn’t seem to have a lot of control over it: her fear had turned into anger, and her anger was making itself known, “—there was nothing in the harbour two days ago. You think you’re so clever but you haven’t figured that out yet. I was there: I would’ve seen it.”
Sibbi stopped. She went a little pale. She seemed to choose her next words came very carefully.
“You were where exactly?”
“Corner of Satek and Old Ox, out by the water. I go there after my shift is over. I like to watch the lighthouse.”
“Between three and four?” said Wajet. Yat nodded.
“And you saw?” said Sibbi.
“Nothing,” said Yat. “The light turned. Some ships came and went. Normal night.”
Her anger was subsiding now. She felt a little unsteady—she’d known what she was doing, and now she didn’t. She couldn’t let it show, though. All four of them were looking at her appraisingly: Wajet, pacing back and forth; Ajat, who’d slunk out of the room and was pouring herself something sweet-smelling behind the bar; Sibbi, standing in the doorway and glowing with magical light, brighter than any lighthouse. She couldn’t read the fourth man’s expression at all.
“Normal night,” said Sibbi. “Two days ago, between the hours of three and four. You are absolutely sure of this? Because a whole ship went missing right there, at that time. But of course, you knew that, didn’t you little monkey?”
She didn’t have an answer to that, but—
Of course.
“Gostei,” she said. The word fell out of her in a single breath. They had their own lighthouse: she’d seen it from her perch, high above the city. It was a week to get there from across the straight, maybe less if the weather permitted.
Ajat stopped drinking. The glass was halfway to her mouth, and her eyes were wide. Sibbi was looking at her.
“Sajti dearest,” she said, “is it possible?”
Ajat nodded, and downed her entire drink at once. She slammed the glass down on the bar.
“It was the wrong lighthouse,” she said. Yat had to strain to hear it. “But that’s impossible. We’d been on-course for Hainak, then we were becalmed. We’d left Gostei, heading northwest. After the wind died, we didn’t go anywhere. That damned fog rolled in and it was hard to see your own hands, but we weren’t going anywhere. I swear on my lives, we didn’t move. That’s miles from where we were meant to be. And you don’t get fog at this time of year: it’s too damned hot for it. You don’t get fog, you don’t get, you don’t—ships don’t just jump miles on their own. Ships don’t—”
Sibbi walked over to her, and laid a gentle hand on her forearm. A look passed between them, but Yat couldn’t read it. She turned to Wajet, but he seemed as lost as she was. Sibbi turned to them.
“I need some time to think about this,” she said. “Come speak to me in the morning. You might be useful to us after all.”
“I was always useful,” said Yat. The fear-anger rose in her again, then fled as quickly as it had come: a lance of fire, spearing her from head to heart and leaving her sick and exhausted.
“Aye,” said Wajet. “That you were. And with that, I’m off to bed.”
He yawned a little too loudly—like he was rubbing something in—then stomped off out of the bar. She did not trust the man at all. She’d been told he was smarter than he let on, and braver than he let on, and kinder than he let on. She’d been told those things, but hadn’t seen any of them. When she looked at him, she could still taste gunsmoke.
The fourth man followed him. He didn’t say anything, but gave Yat a slight nod that almost looked like the beginning of a bow, then he trotted out after Wajet.
Yat stayed for a few moments longer, drumming her fingers against her thigh. This felt like a victory, of sorts. She didn’t know who over, or what it would cost her, but it didn’t matter—she needed a win, and she’d found one.
“Good night,” she said. “And don’t read my memories again. If you want to know something, ask.”
Sibbi was pouring herself and Ajat another drink. She nodded at Yat: no condescending little laugh this time—eye contact, and a certain wary trust. She nodded. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough for now.
The station at Macque’s Furrow was some old noble’s second house that he didn’t use. The force had graciously been loaned its use, on the condition that they kept it clean and didn’t sleep in the beds. Sen had set up a hammock in the garden. You’d be mad to sleep outdoors in the less salubrious parts of town, but the perk of being around toffs was never needing to worry. No wonder they got so much done: money could buy you a lot less worry. Money could buy sleep. There were folks who said money couldn’t buy happiness and they might be right, but it could sure as shit obviate misery. In a hammock, in a yard whose upkeep cost more than he earned in a year, Sen slept fitfully. He dreamt that he was being pecked at by sparrows, then he was a sparrow with a sharp beak peck-peck-pecking all the little crumbs, until a dog arrived and chased him away and he flew up north, up beyond the wall, and into the silent city of—
He woke to dawn’s light, the chattering of monkeys in the trees, and the gentle murmur of the house’s breathing. This part of town had been a monkey temple, in the old days. Generations of monkeys had come and gone, but they must’ve still told each other the same stories: this is our place, this is where we belong, this is where food is plentiful and the humans are kind and slow. Sen rolled out of the hammock and stretched out a little. His leg still hurt, but it wasn’t so severe as yesterday. The cane was probably slowing his recovery down, making his arm as weak as his leg. What had the old penny manual said? The body is a watch, a viol, an instrument where each part works in harmony with the rest. If one is untrained, so are the rest. Shit advice, but that’s what you got for a quarter-yan.
“Oi,” said Sen. The monkey peered down at him. He’d never been a praying man, but he’d liked that old monkey manual. He’d learnt to fight monkey-style first: it suited him more than most styles: he’d been a small kid with long limbs. Awkward, gangly kid who wanted to be a damned hero, who read about monkey stealing fire from the gods. Yat’s book said it was a cat, but that was bullshit: everybody who read the real stuff—the stuff you got for a quarter-yan from some bloke in an alley that had pictures for all the punches—knew it was monkey. He stared up at the monkey, and made a sign he could only half-remember, that they’d done in secret in the playground, playing at gong fu master.
“You see Yat,” he said, “you tell her to come home. You tell her something’s changing, and I need her more than ever. You tell her she fucked up and didn’t see it, and I fucked up and didn’t see it, and there’s none so blind as a cop who’s got other problems.”
The monkey bared its teeth at him, in a frightened little smile.
“Failing that,” he said, “send a typhoon. Send an earthquake. Send fire, send fog, send my fucking nanna with a bag of razor-sharp knitting needles. Everything is so fucked that I don’t even know where to begin. I just … I just want to know I’m not alone. I’m lost and I’m scared and I feel like I’m the only bloody one who’s lost and scared. I used to be sure I was doing the right thing, but I’m not even sure what I’m doing any more. I just—”
The monkey bounced on its branch, then leapt up and scurried off. Sen sighed. That seemed right: a prayer, interrupted. There were two other officers assigned to the temp
orary station, but they wouldn’t be awake before noon. He couldn’t go back to the temple, or the Docks Ward station. If he left his post, he’d wind up feeding crayfish on the bottom of the Axakat. They had him dead to rights. They were stronger than him, and higher up the chain than him, and a dozen steps ahead of him.
Sen had survived two tours and a revolution. He’d survived them by being young, strong, quick and brutal. He’d survived them by not caring: by looking out for himself and letting everything else burn down. He’d tried to put it behind him, and now he was stuck in a fancy garden with a bamboo water feature and too many monkeys. He got onto his knees and continued to pray: to pray for the gods to send him somebody, anybody at all. Alone in the garden, Sen wept.
Morning came. It was strange to sleep in a bed again, after however long on the run. It hadn’t been a great night’s sleep, but—considering the run Yat’d had of the last few days—it could definitely have been worse. She wandered up to the bar and found the crew eating breakfast: rice and fish. Nothing fancy, but the serving was generous and it filled her up. She was given a cup of tea before she even thought to ask for one. She sat with the sailors, and saw them for the first time in the light of day.
She hadn’t remembered there being so many women. There was a lot of biowork on display: a lot of it practical—a set of talonlike fingernails, acid burns on the hands and forearms from military enhancement, a pair of strange yellow eyes with boxlike pupils—but a lot of it was cosmetic too. She’d assumed most of them would be men, but there were a lot of women and in a lot of cases it was hard to tell. She knew about people like that, of course: if alchemical botany was good for anything, it was good for changing bodies. Civilians weren’t permitted to do that sort of biowork, but it happened anyway. They’d be arrested sometimes, if they looked poor enough and the cop hadn’t hit their quota, or sometimes they had hit their quota but they didn’t understand what they were seeing and they didn’t like not understanding, so they went and twisted the thing around until it fit a shape they understood. You didn’t see a lot of folk like that, because the police worked hard to make sure you didn’t see them.
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